


Names in the Snow

by OperaPhantom



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst and Fluff and Smut, BAMF Arya Stark, BAMF Sansa Stark, BAMF Women, Bisexual Jaime Lannister, Bisexual Sansa Stark, Canon-Typical Violence, Elia Martell Lives, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Smut, King Rhaegar Targaryen, Lyanna Stark Lives, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Elia Martell/Rhaegar Targaryen, Minor Lyanna Stark/Elia Martell, Minor Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen, Multi, Oberyn Martell Flirts, Protective Jaime Lannister, Queen Elia Martell, Queen Lyanna Stark, R Plus L Equals J | Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen are Jon Snow's Parents, Ramsay Bolton is His Own Warning, Rhaegar Targaryen Lives, Romantic Soulmates, Sansa is underage by our standards but an adult by ASOIAF standards, Sexual Content, Smut, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, The violence is against Ramsay, Warg Sansa Stark, Wargs, Wargs & Warging (A Song of Ice and Fire), Wulf Pack 2/21
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:53:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29736933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OperaPhantom/pseuds/OperaPhantom
Summary: “It’s a punishment,” most whispered. “Punishment from the Old Gods for betraying them for the Seven.”A few others disagreed. “A gift from the Old Gods to the eldest Stark daughter,” they said. “Or a gift to the North.”~~~~~~Sansa Stark receives the Gods' Gift, the mark that identifies her soulmate, only to find out it's what no one, not even herself, expected it to be. But sometimes, surprises can be sweet.For the February 2021 Pack Prompt of "unexpected".
Relationships: Ellaria Sand/Sansa Stark, Jaime Lannister/Ellaria Sand, Jaime Lannister/Oberyn Martell, Jaime Lannister/Sansa Stark, Oberyn Martell/Ellaria Sand, Oberyn Martell/Ellaria Sand/Sansa Stark, Oberyn Martell/Sansa Stark
Comments: 16
Kudos: 117
Collections: Pack Member Stories





	Names in the Snow

**Author's Note:**

> AN: I changed ages to fit this story. Sansa is 16, while Jaime is ~28, Oberyn is ~36, and Ellaria ~30.  
> Since 16 isn't legal majority in many places, I added the underage tag. But in the eyes of law in ASOIAF, she's a grown woman.

Everything changed when the silk gloves were pulled off her hands with a flourish, baring the script beneath them. Everyone expected a night of revelry, to celebrate the reveal of her soulmate. When Catelyn fainted, the family knew something was wrong. They expected a bare hand with no name, not a common occurrence but not unheard of either. Not everyone received the Gods’ Gift. After all, their own aunt, Lyanna, had no soulmate mark. But it only took a glance for them to realize there was a name on each hand; two different names. Despite Lord Eddard’s care, the news spread through Winterfell faster than the Starks could stop it. Two names for a girl with two soulmates.

“It’s a punishment,” most whispered. “Punishment from the Old Gods for betraying them for the Seven.”

A few others disagreed. “A gift from the Old Gods to the eldest Stark daughter,” they said. “Or a gift to the North.”

What everyone agreed was that it was unexpected, and that the Starks worried. Catelyn weeped, believing herself at fault. She alternated between praying to the Old Gods in apology for ignoring and angering them, and then praying to the Seven to beg their forgiveness for praying to the Old Gods. Eddard spent more time in the Godswood under the red leaves of the heart tree, inscrutable in his countenance. Robb promised his younger sister that it didn’t matter how old they were, she could always look to him for protection. Theon promised her the same. Arya swore that if Sansa’s soulmates didn’t behave she’d stick them with her Needle, that no one would lay a hand on her older sister if Sansa didn’t want them to. Bran was in awe that his sister was soulmate to two of the most famous warriors of the day, and simply shrugged his shoulders at the oddity of having two soulmates. Rickon was too young to understand why people were upset, so he only offered smiles and hugs.

Maester Luwin had never heard of a woman having two soulmates; the rare examples from history were all men, such as Aegon the Conqueror who bore the names of both Visenya and Rhaenys. Maester Luwin even wrote to the Citadel in Oldtown to discreetly request more information about the God’s Gift. None was forthcoming. Lord Eddard even agreed to let him send ravens across Westeros and Essos to beg for information, but stipulated the maester couldn’t say why. Nevertheless, all the responses were the same; no information was to be found.

As to the young woman in question, Sansa herself wavered between fear and hope. It was not fear of her soulmates. Her mother had raised her on tales of soulmates; Florian and Jonquil, Durran and Elenei, King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne, Tywin and Joanna Lannister. Soulmates made each other happy, so of course she had nothing to fear from them. She did not fear the difference in their ages, the temperaments of her soulmates, or their reputations. She knew that the Gods, both Old and New, would not give her to someone cruel.

No, she feared what others would say. She was all too aware of how the men and boys looked at her as she grew. Far too often she’d overheard how much they wanted to bed her. Many of the men talked about how they hoped she’d bear the name of one of their sons. They called her the jewel of the North, and expected her to bear the name of a Northern man. Bearing the names of two men would be acceptable to them if at least one of them was Northern. But both of her soulmates were men from the South. The Northern lords would be in an uproar, furious at “losing” another Stark daughter to Southron men, and infamous ones at that. Would they be angry enough to argue the Gods’ Gift should be ignored? Even worse, would her father listen if they did? Soulmates were sacred, but the lure of power could easily make men forget the sacred. Such had happened with Maegor the Cruel and his wives, with Mad Aerys and Rhaella, with her own Aunt Lysa and Jon Arryn.

Sansa refused to be doomed by the weaknesses of men and damned by the gods, any gods. One night, she asked Arya to help her sneak up to the rookery.  
“Maester Luwin will tell Father if I try during the day. And I refuse to be cursed by the gods for not marrying my soulmates.”  
Arya smirked at her sister. “And they say I’m most like Aunt Lyanna,” she quipped. Sansa glared at her sister, a flush of embarrassment and anger staining her cheeks, and Arya gave her an awkward hug. “Sorry, I know how much soulmates mean to you. Of course I’ll help. We should ask Bran too, he knows the best routes.”

And so Sansa Stark, the perfect lady, found herself a pair of borrowed breeches and following Bran as he led her and Arya across his secret climbing paths up to the rookery. The dangerous route made Sansa’s heart beat faster than it ever had before, but fear of marrying someone other than her soulmates spurred her forward. They crept along the bridge from the Bell Tower, sneaking through until they reached the rookery. The ravens were grumpy at having their sleep disturbed, but stayed mostly silent. Sansa sent up a quick prayer to both the Old Gods and the Seven, taking the raven’s ease as the gods easing her attempt. Quickly, she pulled out the letters she’d written earlier in the day. One went to the Sunspear raven, the other to the King’s Landing raven; both with prayers for speed and safety. Sansa’s heart dropped when she saw both ravens hadn’t been sent already. Over a month had passed since she’d received the names of her soulmates. She wanted to believe her father wouldn’t doom her, like poor Rhaella had been when she was forced to marry the late King Aerys, but now she wasn’t sure. Had Aunt Lysa thought the same before Grandfather Hoster had made her marry Jon Arryn, a man thrice her age? As the birds flew off into the night, Sansa hoped her soulmates would come.

* * *

> _Ser Jaime Lannister,_
> 
> _I beg your forgiveness for the unexpected nature of this letter, but I also beg you to finish reading it. As I write this, a little over a month has passed since my sixteenth nameday. It was a surprise to my family and myself, for I received two names. Yours is one of them, the other is Prince Oberyn Martell._
> 
> _I do not know if my father has already written to you about this. I fear he has not, which is why I myself am writing to you. Power can do strange things to men, including forgetting the sacred nature of soulmates. I do not wish to be cursed by the gods for marrying another while my soulmates live. If you are amenable to marriage, I implore you to write as such to my father, as soon as possible. Although it has been many years since my aunt Lyanna left for King Rhaegar, the North remembers, as do the lords who hoped she would marry them or their sons. To lose another Stark daughter to the South is something that upsets them greatly. I also beg you to keep my writing to you a secret._
> 
> _Your soulmate,_  
>  _Lady Sansa Stark_

Jaime absently rubbed the raised names on his hands as he watched Cersei’s expression as she read the letter. Perhaps Lady Sansa would dislike it, but he knew he could trust his twin. Apart from himself, she was the only one who knew he’d received his soulmate marks. If Tyrion was here he would know too, but their little brother was off in Braavos negotiating with the Iron Bank. Jaime wouldn’t risk this in a letter, not yet.

Cersei put the parchment down, quirking an eyebrow at her twin. “What do you intend to do?”  
Jaime sighed. “I don’t know,” he admitted, “that’s why I came to you.”  
“It’s only a matter of time before someone sees the names on your hands,” she told him, ever aware of his concerns, “and then you’d be dismissed from the Kingsguard anyway. Lady Sansa obviously thinks you and Prince Oberyn are better matches than any of the Northmen.”

“Would Stark really ignore the names and marry her to someone else?” Jaime asked. It was one thing to marry off a child with no soulmate for political reasons; it was quite another to ignore soulmate marks and doom someone to a cursed marriage. He found it hard to believe that the stringently honorable man he’d met would do such a thing, especially to his own daughter.  
Cersei pursed her lips. “I don’t know. I doubt he would, but…” She sighed. “It’s been almost twenty years since you last saw Eddard Stark, and nearing four even for Robert and I. Remember, it’s been over a month and you’ve received only her letter, not his. And if Father had heard from Lord Stark, we would know about it. Lady Sansa’s fears might well be justified.”  
“I won’t let that happen,” he said emphatically. “I won’t let her be cursed in such a way.”  
“I know you wouldn’t.”

Jaime shifted in his seat. “What… what is she like?” he asked.  
Cersei took a sip of wine. “It’s been some time since we last saw her, but she was sweet. A pretty child, likely a beautiful young lady now. She and Myrcella got on well, and she indulged Tommen’s fascination with her direwolf without complaint.”  
“She has a direwolf? Like Prince Jon’s Jaehaerys?”  
Cersei nodded. “Oh yes, all the Stark children do. From the same litter as Prince Jon’s. Lady Sansa named hers… Lady, that was it. A sweet and well-behaved animal. More lap-wolf than direwolf” she joked. “She had several embroidered collars she’d made for her pet.”  
“And her faults?”  
“She has, or had, a certain naivete about her. Since he went back to Winterfell after Lyanna’s marriage, Stark hasn’t left the North. His children have grown up lacking much knowledge of Southron court intrigues. Apart from that, I don’t remember any egregious failings.”

Jaime absorbed his sister’s words as they sat in silence. After a while, Cersei looked at him, mischief in her eyes.  
“If she received the names, Prince Oberyn must have as well,” she said slyly.  
Jaime blushed; his sister was the only one who knew he liked both men and women, and of his… appreciation of Prince Oberyn’s sparring and his form. Again, he rubbed the names on his hands. He’d heard nothing from the Prince, but he'd never heard of a one-sided soulmate bond. There were rumors Prince Oberyn took lovers of both sexes, but perhaps all they were was rumors.

He shook himself. “Prince Oberyn isn’t the concern right now. Lady Sansa is.” He stood, the path he needed clear to him. “Their Graces need to know about my marks, as does Ser Barristan.”  
“You’ll head North after that?”  
He nodded. “Yes, and soon. By myself if I must, but soon. We may not know Lord Stark all that well, but Lady Sansa is his daughter. If she’s afraid, she must have a reason.”  
“Going alone won’t do you much good, and Robert and I must return to Storm’s End.” Cersei looked thoughtful for a moment. “Mayhaps Queen Lyanna has some insight into her niece’s fears,” she mused.

* * *

> _Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell,_
> 
> _It is quite likely you see this raven from Winterfell with distaste and ire after my aunt Lyanna’s actions. I beg your forgiveness for the unexpected nature of this letter, but I beg you still to finish reading it. As of my writing this, a little over a month has passed since my sixteenth nameday. To the surprise of both myself and my family, I received two names. Yours is one, the other is Ser Jaime Lannister._
> 
> _I do not know if my father has already written to you about this. With the Northern lords upset about my Aunt Lyanna not marrying one of them and then my own soulmates being two Southron men, he has had much on his mind. I fear he has forgotten to write to you. I know power, even the thought of it, does strange things, including making men forget the sacred nature of the Gods’ Gift. The histories and songs are proof of this. I am aware that my writing to you may seem impertinent. Quite simply, I do not wish to be cursed by the Gods for ignoring my soulmates. If you are amenable to a marriage, I beg you to write my father and tell him as such. I also implore you to keep my writing to you a secret._
> 
> _Your soulmate,_  
>  _Lady Sansa Stark_

Prince Doran’s gouty hands were surprisingly firm as he read the letter.  
“A Stark and a Martell in a triad once more,” he said curiously. “The Gods must enjoy their jokes.”  
Prince Oberyn paused his pacing to glare at his brother. “It’s hardly a joke,” he protested. “The girl obviously feels her father will ignore her marks and curse her to a doomed marriage.”  
“Lord Stark’s honor is well-known; it’s unlikely he will ignore her marks. But if he does, you can hardly ride for Winterfell with naught but yourself,” Doran said dryly. “You will take an appropriate entourage with you. We shall write to Lord Stark and tell him you’ve received Lady Sansa’s name.”

Oberyn glanced at the script on his hands. “Doran, I have daughters older than her,” he said quietly.  
Doran reached out to hold his brother’s hands in his own. “I doubt she is a vapid girl. She managed to get us a letter, after all, and knew what would happen if she did not. She’s likely heard tales about you, but wrote the letter anyway. I doubt that she expects you to have remained celibate for twenty-odd years without a soulmate, or that she’ll be cruel to the girls.”  
“Still. How do I explain it to the girls, and to Ellaria?” His brow furrowed. He would not put aside his children, not for anyone. And Ellaria, while not his soulmate, was still dear to his heart.  
“I know you will always care for them; tell them so. None of your children are simple. Ellaria will be as surprised as us, I’m sure, but she will take it in her stride.” Doran paused, taking in how tense Oberyn was. “Do you not want to marry Lady Sansa?” he asked.  
Oberyn shook his head. “It’s not that.” He sighed, then laughed dryly. “I feel as nervous as a green boy.”  
Doran smiled gently at his younger brother. “Ser Jaime is a well-known swordsman, and Lady Sansa is said to have the best of both Stark and Tully beauty. Perhaps you think he means to have her all to himself?” he teased.

Oberyn threw back his head, laughing deeply. “Perhaps,” he said with a small smirk. His mood turned serious. “Let me write to Ser Jaime, before you send that letter to Lord Stark. Lady Sansa’s fears make me ill at ease.”

* * *

> _Ser Jaime Lannister,_
> 
> _No doubt a Martell letter comes as a surprise to you. I myself received a surprising letter recently, from Lady Sansa Stark. She wrote that she received both of our names as her soulmate marks. She also expressed fears that she will be forced into a doomed marriage before we reach her._
> 
> _I am sailing to King’s Landing with a small entourage of stalwart Dornishmen, ready to defend our soulmate. I propose we join forces and ride together. With both of us there, the Starks are less likely to refuse. I believe we also have much to talk about._
> 
> _Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell_

* * *

Sansa passed an anxious fortnight wondering whether her letters had reached their destinations. Were her soulmates on their way now? Was her father making plans with them? She wondered if that was the cause of the strange tension that existed of late between him and her mother. Her mother had made it plain she disproved of not only having two soulmates, but also the men themselves.

One afternoon, her father called her into his study. Both he and her mother were sitting behind his heavy weirwood desk, eyes fixed on her. As Sansa took her seat opposite them, Lady at her feet, he sighed.  
“Lemoncake, I…” His words trailed off and his eyes were serious as he looked at her. Catelyn’s hands gripped one of his, her knuckles white.

Unease spread through Sansa. Her stomach churned. “What is it? Has something happened?” Were her soulmates in trouble?  
Eddard sighed again, a deep, bone-weary sigh that made him seem older than his years. “Lord Bolton sent us a raven. His son just turned six and ten. His soulmate mark was your name.”

Sansa’s blood froze in her veins. It wasn’t possible. Soulmates received each other’s names, or one didn’t have a soulmate. There was no such thing as a one-sided soulmate bond. “But… I do not have his,” she said, hating how her voice quavered. “I bear the names of Oberyn Martell and Jaime Lannister.”  
Catelyn jerked her head. “We’ve received no ravens from them,” she said sharply. “If they bore your name, they would have written. Lord Bolton and his…” Catelyn’s lips pursed like Arya’s had when she’d eaten a raw lemon. “His son will be traveling here soon.”

Inside herself, Sansa was screaming. She wanted to rage and cry and shout. Another part of her, somehow remaining cool and level-headed, remembered Maester Luwin’s lessons on the noble houses. “Lord Bolton’s son is five years my senior,” she pointed out, “so they must be lying.”  
Eddard shook his head. “Domeric Bolton is dead. His brother, Ramsay, is the same age as you.”  
Ramsay? She wracked her brain, going back through Maester Luwin’s lessons to remember where he fit, but she’d never heard of a Ramsay Bolton before. When she said as much, her mother’s expression grew even more sour.  
“Lord Bolton thought his son died in the cradle,” she said flatly. “It recently came to light that he had actually been abducted by the woman hired to look after him. Lord Bolton named Ramsay his heir after Domeric’s death.”

As she looked at her mother and father, Sansa realized they wanted her to marry this Ramsay. Anger welled up. It burned cold within her, not hot like when she and Arya fought. Lady sat up from her prone position; though she made no noise, her hackles were raised.  
“I’m not stupid,” Sansa said, willing her voice to be strong. “I know the lords are upset my soulmates are Southron. I know they feel cheated at having lost another chance to marry into the Starks, especially after Aunt Lyanna left for the King.” She stood tall; by now, she was taller than either of her parents. Her voice was firm, and did not quaver. “I am six and ten and a woman grown, if not wedded. I will not marry a man who is not my soulmate like Aunt Lysa was forced to. I will not offend the gods in such a manner. Even you cannot make me.” She left, her head high, and Lady followed her.

As soon as she closed the door, she picked up her skirts and ran. Lady kept pace at her side, the direwolf letting out low huffs and growls. Sansa didn’t care if she was being unladylike, cared not a whit for the shocked expression on Septa Mordane’s face as she ran past the older woman. She had to find her siblings, at least Arya and Bran. Something was wrong with this, very wrong; Sansa could feel it, some unshakeable innate knowledge.

Luck was with her, or maybe the gods were easing her way once more. All her siblings and Theon were in the training yard. They looked up when she ran in, the shock of seeing her in such a state plain on their faces.  
“Mother and Father want me to marry Lord Bolton’s son,” she gasped. “He said he has my name as his mark. But he’s lying. Something’s wrong.”  
Robb looked puzzled. “But-”  
Sansa shook her head to stop him. There wasn’t time for a discussion. “I’m going to lock myself in my room. Mother and Father are both acting odd,” she said tearfully, her eyes welling up as she remembered just how strangely they acted.  
Arya met her eyes, and gripped her training sword tighter. “We’ll sneak food to you,” she said, nodding decisively. “Go.”

Sansa and Lady ran back to her room. She bolted the door behind her. Would that be enough? She wouldn’t marry this Ramsay Bolton. No one could make her forgo her soulmates and gain the wrath of the gods. Although, with how strangely her parents were acting, they might try. The gods knew it had happened to poor Aunt Lysa.

Glancing about her room for something, anything, her gaze landed on the heavy bench at the foot of her bed. It was a sturdy, solid piece of furniture, decades old and made from Northern pines. She grabbed the end of it and dragged it over to the door. It was heavier than she expected, and she’d only dragged it a foot or so when she had to catch her breath.  
“Lady, help me,” she gasped. Lady padded over to the opposite end of the bench. Leaning, she managed to move it a few more inches. Between the two of them, they slowly pushed and pulled it to block the door. It would have to do for now. The only thing left was to wait and see what her parents would do. Exhausted, physically and emotionally, she sobbed as fell onto her bed, her tears staining her pillow.

* * *

Were it not for Lady’s company and the cleverness of her siblings and Theon, Sansa swore she’d have gone mad. Her mother alternated between furiously berating Sansa, and tearfully begging her to think of the Stark’s reputation. Sansa worried her mother would order the guards to break down the door, but she never did. Bran and Arya regularly clambered in through her window, bringing food, books, and anything else she wanted. When Arya brought the embroidery Sansa was in the middle of, the young girl made sure it stayed clean. For all Sansa wished there’d been another way, she did enjoy the newfound closeness with her sister.

They also brought news. Bran told her that the day before Sansa’s meeting with their parents, they’d received a raven from their aunt. He admitted he’d immediately sent a raven to her to see if she would tell them what it was and if she had any insight into their parents' actions. Arya told her, unusually apologetic and gentle, that she’d overheard their mother had received ravens from King’s Landing and Sunspear, but no one knew what happened to the letters.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, they’d also found out far too much about Ramsay Bolton. While Lord Bolton was repeating the same tale he’d told the Starks, a few others were telling it differently. They said this Ramsay was actually Lord Bolton’s bastard, not a true-born son, and that Lord Bolton made him his heir after Domeric’s mysteriously sudden death. Disturbing news about his… appetites made its way from the Dreadfort. There were stories of criminals being hunted by Ramsay and his dogs instead of properly executed; of his mercurial and violent nature; of his obsession with the Bolton practice of flaying his enemies.

Everything Sansa heard about him made her heart sink. He wasn’t a golden knight like Ser Jaime. He wasn’t a dashing prince like Prince Oberyn. He was a cruel, vicious monster. She doubted he truly bore her name; if he did, she knew the gods hadn’t put it there. Her father had never trusted Lord Bolton, and she knew many of the other lords didn’t either. There were always disturbing rumors coming from the Dreadfort, although nothing that could ever be proven or else her father would have marched against Lord Bolton long ago. She remembered one time when he’d come to Winterfell to meet with her father. The way his pale eyes had looked at her, as if he was tallying her worth like she was something to be bought, made her skin crawl. She didn’t understand why her father and mother thought she would marry into such a house instead of her soulmates.

Days passed as Sansa stayed in her room. Days turned into weeks. Her parents took turns trying to cajole her to come out. They promised to plant more lemon trees in the glass garden. They promised her Myrish lace, gold and silver threads for embroidery, silks from Essos, anything if only she would come out. Every time they asked her, she asked them if it was to marry Ramsay Bolton or her soulmates. And every time she asked, her mother berated Sansa for her obstinance and pride, saying she’d be the downfall of the Starks. Every time, her mother bemoaned the loss of her perfect lady, and blamed the names on her hands for her newfound willfulness.

Sansa didn’t see how she could be a perfect lady if she disobeyed the gods. Part of her hated how much distress she was causing her parents and Septa Mordane, but what else could she do? Her parents refused to back down. As long as she stayed as she was, they couldn’t make her marry the horrid Ramsay.

One day, two moons after she’d locked herself in her room and fed up with the injustice of it all, Sansa shouted back at her mother. She said that if Lyanna hadn’t caused such a thing by refusing to marry Robert Baratheon and running off with Rhaegar Targaryen, then Sansa’s refusal to spit in the face of the gods wouldn’t either. Eddard ordered his wife to leave them, and Sansa listened as her mother’s quick steps faded away.  
“Lemoncake,” he began, “Lyanna was… her situation was different.”  
Her lip trembled at the gentleness of her father’s voice. “Of course it was. She had no soulmate. I have two, both alive.”  
“That’s not what I meant.” He paused. In her mind's eye, Sansa could see his thoughtful expression as he chose his words carefully. “Your mother sent ravens to both Ser Jaime and Prince Oberyn, telling them about your marks. She sent several of them, to make sure the letters were received. There was no response to any of them.”

Sansa’s breath stuttered in her lungs. Could they– No. Sansa herself had seen the ravens in the rookery. Even if her mother had only sent two or three ravens, what was the likelihood that Sansa chose the one night both were in the rookery to send her letters? “When?” she asked, needing to know.  
“The first was just after your nameday. The second was a few days after that. The last was nearly three moons ago.”  
She thought hard. “The day Gage made extra lemoncakes just for me?” That was the night she’d sent her letters.  
“Yes. We didn’t want to upset you,” he said gently. “When Lord Bolton wrote to us about his son, we knew it was the gods providing for you.”

Lady whined, sensing Sansa’s agitation. Sansa paced back and forth in her chambers. How could her mother have sent letters to Sunspear and King’s Landing on the same night Sansa had used those same ravens for her own letters? Tears pooled in her eyes. Her mother had raised her on stories of soulmates, had lectured her on the dangers of ignoring the mark and spiting the gods. After all, Aunt Lysa was Mother’s sister; she knew the dangers all too well. Why was she going back on everything she had told her daughter?

Sansa looked down at her hands. The silver script of the names shimmered faintly on her pale skin. She knew why.

* * *

Half a moon’s turn after her conversation with her father, Winterfell erupted into a frenzy of action. Calls from the guards on the walls made Sansa look outside. From her window, she could see the Bolton banners as they rode through the gate. Her heart stuttered and her lips trembled, but she refused to crumble. She couldn’t fall apart. She had to stay strong and trust the gods.

She paced around her room, waiting. This was the worst part for her, the endless waiting. Thoughts raced through her mind. All the ways that something could go wrong came to her; her parents might break down the door, Lord Bolton might break down the door, Ramsay could follow Arya or Bran and sneak in through her window. The worst thought was that Ramsay’s name would appear on her hand and erase those of her soulmates.

A knock on the door stopped her intrusive thoughts. Another knock quickly came after the first. It was hard and fast, and sounded unlike those of her parents.  
“Lady Sansa?”  
The unknown voice had a sinister quality that made her hair stand on end. “Who is it?” she called.  
“Ramsay Bolton. Your soulmate.”  
Her heart dropped. “I apologize that I must distress you, but I am not your soulmate. I bear the names of others.”  
The cold chuckle made her blood turn to ice. “So I’ve heard, my lady, but that can be easily remedied. All you need to do is open the door so we can meet face to face,” he said breezily.

Lady stepped forward, growling at the door. Sansa backed up. The same sense of wrongness she’d felt in her father’s study returned. A noise behind Sansa made her whirl around, but it was only Arya sneaking in through her window. Arya, in rough breeches and her Needle drawn. Arya, who glared at the door and mimicked Lady’s growl.  
“Don’t do it,” Arya whispered. “The name’s a fake. Someone carved it into his skin. I saw the scar,” she said with soft horror.

Sansa’s stomach heaved, and she rushed to her chamberpot. Bile forced its way up her throat. She wiped her mouth with a nearby cloth, then poured herself a cup of water from her table. To carve… even if he had no soulmate, to make a mockery of the gods’ sacred gift in such a way… it was beyond an affront.

Another cold chuckle came from the other side of her door. “Come now, surely the prospect doesn’t disturb you that much?”  
Sansa shivered, wrapping her arms around herself for some, any, comfort. She drew herself up to her full height; it wouldn’t intimidate “Yes, it does. You are not my soulmate, and I will never marry you.”  
“Oh, Lady Sansa,” he tsked, “never say never.”

As his footsteps faded away, Arya opened her arms and wrapped Sansa in a tight hug. “He won’t hurt you,” she said fervently. “I won’t let him.”

* * *

Arya stayed with Sansa, promising she’d protect her older sister from the Boltons. She’d been in the courtyard when they rode in, and she said it took only one look for her to know Ramsay was dangerous. When she saw the mark he claimed was a soulmate mark, she ran to Sansa as quickly as she could. Syrio, her “dancing” teacher, had already gotten her breeches and Needle, and distracted everyone who’d come looking for Arya.

Sansa was grateful for his sister’s company and protection, and promised the Gods she’d pray often once the Boltons were gone. For two more days, she endured listening to Ramsay’s depraved ramblings. He insisted she was his soulmate, that she would love him, that his name would appear if only she’d open her door and look at him. She refused every time. She hadn’t laid eyes on him, but something in his voice put her in mind of how people talked about the late Mad King. Lady’s dislike of him also made Sansa uneasy. Her wolf was sweet and well-behaved, but that didn’t mean Lady was stupid.

On the third day, Arya snuck out and promised she’d return. She came back with rope, food, traveling packs, and clothes. Her small face was pale and determined.  
“Robb overheard the guards in the training yard. Tomorrow they’re going to break down the door. We have to leave,” she said grimly. “Between me, Lady and Nymeria, you’ll be safe.”  
“Where will we go?”  
“We’ll head to White Harbor. We can get a ship to King’s Landing from there. Aunt Lyanna won’t turn us away, or hand you back to the Boltons. Then Ser Jaime and Prince Oberyn can marry you, and there won’t be anything anyone can do to hurt you.”

Sansa paced as she thought it over. Her door was solid wood with strong iron hinges, but every door had its limits. Maybe they would only break in two days from now, or three, or four, but eventually they would. She’d known her parents wouldn’t let her stay in her room forever, but she’d hoped… She’d hoped they’d come to their senses and forget this Bolton nonsense. She’d hoped her soulmates would come and rescue her. She’d hoped the Boltons would decide she was too much trouble and leave. As it was, neither her parents nor the Boltons would back down. Her soulmates weren’t here, and who knew when —if— they would arrive. Would it really be as simple as Arya said it would be? If anyone understood, it would be their aunt. Sansa sighed. As much as she hated to run away, there wasn’t any other option.

Quietly, Sansa snuck over to the door. “Lady, come,” she whispered.  
She carefully opened the door a crack, peering outside. No one was around.  
“Meet us outside, you and Nymeria,” she whispered to her direwolf. “Don’t let anyone see you.”

Lady padded off down the hallway. Sansa closed the door and bolted it shut once more. Quickly, she changed into the clothes Arya had brought. While her sister could easily pass herself off as a boy, Sansa wasn’t able to do the same. Instead, Arya had found a roughspun dress for her. The cloaks were warm, their father wouldn’t let any of their smallfolk go without basic necessities, and the

Shouts outside drew their attention. The young women looked outside the window to see what was going on. Two figures rode towards the castle. Their cloaks billowed out over their horses’ backs, one in bright Martell orange and the other in brilliant Lannister red. From her vantage point, she could just barely make out that one was as dark as the other was fair. A particularly hard gust of wind snapped the cloaks out, revealing Martell and Lannister sigils. Her breath caught in her throat as her soulmates rode hard for Winterfell looking like saviors from a song. Her heart soared. Prince Oberyn and Ser Jaime would know what to do. With both of them here, her parents couldn’t ignore the soulmate marks. She wouldn’t be forced to marry that wretched Ramsay.

Arya hurriedly tied the rope to Sansa’s bed. It was solid wood, a heavy thing that had taken four men to put together. She opened the window and threw it down.  
“Keep your feet on the stones,” Arya told her, “so you don’t fall. I’ll follow with the wolves.”

Sansa clambered down the wall, praying to the gods she wouldn’t slip in her haste. The rough rope and the stonework chafed her fingers raw, despite the snow that melted at her touch and made them slick. Not far from the ground, a stone broke as soon as her foot touched it. She lost her grip on the rope and tumbled down. The breath rushed out of her, but she forced herself up. She pulled the hood of her cloak closer over her head to hide her blazing hair. The yards were busy, too busy for a non-descript figure to be easily noticed. She had to reach her soulmates before her parents and the Boltons did; who knew what lies they would spin?

Her heart beat faster the closer she got to the gate. She was almost free. Just a few more steps, that was all she needed to take. Then she could run to her soulmates. They’d hold her close, stroke her hair, and tell her everything would be fine.

As she reached the gate, one of the men there turned. Her heart stopped as she stared up into pale eyes, so like those of Lord Bolton. The man smiled at her, an evil grin that froze her blood. “Here to see your soulmate, my lady?” Ramsay asked as he reached out to her with an unhinged gleam in his eyes.

When she heard him refer to himself as her soulmate, something in her snapped. She pulled out her belt knife and stabbed his hand. He howled in pain as she pushed him away from her. She ran out the gate, towards the riders. Three pairs of eyes met, and the men spurred their horses forward. Ser Jaime was faster, and reached her before Prince Oberyn did. He reached down and hauled Sansa up into his arms, pulling his horse to stop.  
“Hello, Lady Sansa,” he said with a brilliant smile, so very different from the one Ramsay had given her. “I’m sorry we’re late. When Queen Lyanna heard about the Boltons she insisted on coming along; that meant far too much of the court came as well.”

The wild ride of emotions became too much for her, and she buried her face in the crook of his neck as she sobbed. His hands were warm and comforting as he held her close. Another warm, solid body pressed in behind her.  
“Whatever has happened,” crooned a rich Dornish accent, “we will protect you, dearest Sansa.”

“What is going on?” Lord Bolton’s soft, yet terrifying voice was just loud enough to be heard. Sansa shivered, but she knew her soulmates would protect her. She wanted to have a proper Northern wedding in the godswood, but she’d run away with them if she had to. The ironic parallel to her aunt, when no one would ever have thought Sansa would follow her, forced a laugh from Sansa’s throat. It bubbled out, and her tears turned to hiccoughs. She pulled away from Ser Jaime, facing Lord Bolton; his pale eyes looked like ice. Ramsay stood next to him, glaring at her. Her father looked concerned, while her mother’s expression was sour. Arya, Nymeria, and Lady ran through the gates towards them. Arya glared at Ramsay, and both direwolves growled low.

Prince Oberyn bowed to her parents from his saddle. He stayed close to her and Ser Jaime, tangling his hand in hers as he straightened; Sansa smiled when she felt the faint ridge of her name.  
“Lord Stark, Lady Stark, I am Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell,” he said boldly. “I bear Lady Sansa’s name as my soulmate mark. I apologize for not arriving sooner; the journey from Dorne is a long one, and the ravens I sent seem to have not arrived.”  
Ser Jaime nodded. “I too bear Lady Sansa’s name as my mark.” He glanced over at Prince Oberyn, then back to her parents. “And after hearing Prince Oberyn, I’m rather curious as to how my ravens never arrived either.”

Ramsay strutted forward. His eyes never left Sansa, and she shuddered at the maniacal light in them. “Very interesting, but I bear Lady Sansa’s name.” He pulled the mitten from his hand, revealing the deep scars. Lady Stark blanched as white as the snow and trembled. Everyone present took a sharp inhale, and Sansa gagged at the sight. It was nothing like a proper mark. Those were a graceful script, like the ones that flowed from Sansa’s wrist and down her hand to her fingers. This… this was nothing like that. The letters were blocky yet sharp, deep and jagged slices into Ramsay’s flesh that scarred when they healed. It was the worst mockery of the Gods’ Gift that Sansa could think of.

He grinned, holding his hand aloft as he kept walking closer. “The mark is quite visible, as you can see,” he said lightly. His smile vanished. “Now unhand my soulmate.” Men at arms moved out from the woods. Some were afoot. Others were on horseback. They wore boiled leather and mail; all of them wore Bolton colors.

Lord Eddard pushed Lady Catelyn behind him, shielding her as his hand fell to his sword. “What’s the meaning of this?” he sharply asked Lord Bolton.  
The shorter lord glanced at his son; in another man, it might be called a glare. “I honestly do not know, Lord Stark. Ramsay, what have you done?”  
The younger man smiled at his father. “I’m taking my proper place as a Bolton. You said the Boltons were kings once; I’ll make us kings again.”

Faster than anyone could react, he reached up and yanked Sansa into his arms. A sharp, thin knife slid into his hand and he held it to her neck. Sansa’s breath paused at the feel of the sharp steel scraping her skin. He wrapped his other arm around her waist.  
“Lady Sansa, my soulmate, and I will be leaving now. I recommend you don’t follow us. Accidents can so easily befall such delicate women as Lady Sansa.” He slowly backed away, towards the men at arms. Sansa shuddered at the feel of his hot breath on her neck as he leaned closer to her ear. “Don’t worry, my dearest soulmate, I won’t hold this against you,” he whispered.

She shuddered again, her gaze flitting about in search of something, anything, to help her. As her eyes met those of Ser Jaime and Prince Oberyn, her soul howled at the fear and anger in them. Her eyes were pulled away, to those of Lady. As she locked gazes with her direwolf, she felt herself slipping away.

In a blink, she watched herself convulse in his arms. She went limp, and Ramsay stumbled under the sudden dead weight. She bared her teeth, snarling and growling as she leapt forward. He looked up. His eyes widened with fear just as her sharp teeth clamped down on the hand that held the knife, the same hand as that blasphemous mockery of the Gods’ Gift. The coppery tang of blood filled her mouth as the crunch of bone and Ramsay’s screams filled her ears. The knife fell from his spasming fingers.

She let go of his hand. He looked up at her, tears pouring from his eyes. He blinked. “Lady Sansa?” he whispered.  
She snarled in response, and he whimpered.  
“Please, mercy,” he begged, babbling his apologies. Her anger raged forth, fire hot and ice cold at the same time. How dare he ask for mercy? He hadn’t cared if the gods damned her for ignoring her soulmates. He planned to take her away from them, to kidnap her! He wanted to force her to marry him. Who knew what he’d planned to do to her pack?

Her teeth clamped shut on his throat, turning his screams to wet, guttural sounds. She shook her head, shaking him like she shook the deer she and her packmates hunted. She felt the snap of his neck more than heard it, and she knew he’d never bother her again.

She padded over to her body; while she dealt with Ramsay, Prince Oberyn and Ser Jaime had dismounted their horses and knelt next to her. Her body lay draped across their laps. She panted happily, wagging her tail as they looked at her. She nuzzled her hair, closing her eyes.

Sansa moaned as she shuddered and convulsed. Four strong hands held her, firm without holding her down. A warm, wet tongue licked her cheek. She blinked, looking up into the faces of her soulmates and Lady. Lady’s muzzle was stained red. The coppery tang of blood was still sharp in Sansa’s nose and mouth.

Soft crunching signalled her father and mother kneeling next to her. Her mother’s face was bloodless and wan, while her father’s eyes were solemn.  
“Lemoncake, do you know what you just did?”  
She shook her head, her thoughts a muddle. She’d been herself when she’d killed Ramsay, and yet Lady’s muzzle was bloody. How was it possible? Wait… she stilled as her thoughts slammed to a sudden halt; Old Nan’s stories. “Did… did I warg into Lady?” she asked, hating how her voice trembled.  
Her father sighed. “I’ve never seen anyone warg, though we Starks know the stories. Did you see through her eyes?”  
“I killed Ramsay,” Sansa whispered.  
Her father inhaled sharply, then gently patted her hand. “Then you must have warged into Lady.”  
“I didn’t know what he’d do,” she whispered. “I couldn’t let him hurt you, or mother, or Arya, or anyone.”

Prince Oberyn kissed her hand, the one with his name. “Do not apologize for protecting those you love,” he said seriously. “I am sorry you were in such a situation in the first place.”  
Ser Jaime nodded. “I agree. And while there is much to discuss, may I ask we get inside out of the chill? Us poor Southron folk are not used to this cold, and it might be best if you clear this up before—”

A brash, feminine voice rang out. “Ned, what have you done to my niece?”

* * *

Sansa giggled as she watched her aunt whirl around the dancefloor with the King in a Dornish reel; much to Oberyn’s delight, Queen Elia had brought Dornish musicians, a “requirement for the marriage of any proper Dornishman”. After everything that had happened, Sansa was finally married to her soulmates. Aunt Lyanna had brought the beautiful dress Sansa wore, along with two seamstresses for any potential changes and the maiden cloak she'd worn when she married the King. The dress was white and dove grey, with panels of Myrish lace on the bodice and soft snow white fur at the collar and cuffs. A cloth of silver belt graced her waist, beautifully embroidered and with large teardrop pearls dangling from the bottom edge. It was a dress fit for a princess, but her aunt, King Rhaegar, and Queen Elia insisted that nothing was too much, and it was one of their wedding gifts to her.

During those horrid days, when the possibility of marrying Ramsay had loomed over her, Sansa had been so afraid she’d never get this. It turned out her mother had never sent any letters to Ser Jaime or Prince Oberyn, and destroyed the ones they’d sent. She’d believed Sansa to be cursed by the gods because of Catelyn’s actions; either by the Old Gods for not believing in them, or by the Seven for allowing her children to be raised in the old ways as well as the light of the Seven. When Lord Bolton wrote to them, she’d thought Ramsay had been Sansa’s true soulmate. At least she had until she’d seen the false mark carved in his skin. Part of Sansa understood her mother wanted to protect her, but part of her was still angry. Her mother also did not know what to make of Sansa’s newfound ability as a warg, nor of the fact that her perfect lady of a daughter had killed someone. The trust and closeness between them would never return to how it was before, and Sansa was glad she and her husbands would leave for Dorne soon.

Jaime leaned over her left hand, raising it to his lips to softly kiss her palm. “Perhaps we should make our escape soon. There’ll be calls for a bedding before long.”  
Oberyn growled softly from her right, shifting in his seat. “If they dare-”  
Sansa placed her free hand over his, stilling him and his quick temper; her husbands were fiercely protective of her after the incident with Ramsay, even though she didn’t fault them for it. They’d been terrified when she’d gone limp, certain Ramsay had done something to her but afraid to act in case he hurt her more.

Sansa wasn’t sure there would actually be calls for a bedding. After all, many present had seen Sansa-as-Lady kill Ramsay, and her husbands were two of the fiercest men in the Seven Kingdoms. Barely any of the men present had asked her to dance or even looked her way; at the most, they glanced at her with wide eyes before quickly looking away. Although, the drunken haze of ale and wine might make them forget their fear. She didn’t want them touching her. She didn’t want anyone but her husbands touching her in such a way; well, except perhaps for Ellaria, Oberyn’s paramour, who sounded so sweet and beautiful it made Sansa’s heart ache and think about if she might become Sansa’s paramour as well. She insisted Ellaria was free to stay with them if she wanted, for she would dearly like them to at least be friends, and she refused to deprive Oberyn’s daughters of their mother.  
“You’re right, it would be best to leave soon. I’d prefer it if my darling husbands didn’t do anything to delay our wedding night,” she teased, too low for any but the men at her sides to hear. The fear she’d once had about this night had long since vanished. Despite Oberyn’s worries, the knowledge of Ellaria had only calmed her; what Dornish woman would keep a man in her bed for over a decade if he wasn’t a skilled lover? Between his and Jaime’s barely-appropriate touches and hungry kisses, she’d found herself in a fevered state of longing for more for the past fortnight.

The musicians struck up another song, this one a well-known favorite in all the Kingdoms. Many couples got up to dance. An impish feeling overtook Sansa, and she pulled on her husbands' hands. She made sure everyone was thoroughly distracted by the dancing and the food, and quickly led them to her chambers.

She made note to once again thank Their Graces —or simply Rhaegar and Elia as they'd insisted she call them— for one of their other wedding gifts was a huge bed. It was beautifully carved from a weirwood, and large enough for all Sansa and both her soulmates to sleep together comfortably. Currently it dominated her room, but Oberyn assured her there would be plenty of space for it at the Water Gardens.

Letting go of their hands, Sansa bolted the door behind them. She looked at her soulmates —her husbands, blushing slightly as they met her gaze with such intensity. She turned, pulling her hair over her shoulder and revealing the laces of her dress.  
"It seems you'll have to serve as handmaidens tonight, for my own are at the feast," she said coyly, gazing at them over her shoulder.  
"As my soulmate asks," Jaime murmured, pressing a kiss where her jaw met her neck. She swore she felt the heat of his hands through the layers of her clothes as he gently loosened the laces.

Oberyn moved in front of her to steal a kiss. It was soft and slow, a gentle teasing as he traced the seam of her lips with the tip of his tongue. He tasted like the wine and lemoncakes they'd finished the feast with. Sansa felt as if she would melt from the warmth of being pressed between both her husbands. And the pleasure would only increase! How was she to survive this night? He reached up to her hair, pulling out the pins that held her crown of braids in place. Gentle, he freed her hair from the thick braids. It fell down in waves of fire.

Her husbands worked in tandem to slowly pull the dress down her body. It pooled on the floor around her feet, and she carefully stepped out of the puddle of fabric. Jaime picked her up in his strong arms and carried her over to the bed. He laid her down gently on the comfortable furs, while Oberyn laid the dress out for the maids to look after. She smiled at her considerate Dornishman; of course he remembered her sadness at the thought of its beauty being ruined in a bedding. Her chemises were thick ones, made for the Northern cold, but her smallclothes were delicate things of silk and lace. Jaime pulled off each chemise until she was left in only her small clothes. As he reached for the delicate laces of her silk drawers and short chemise, she stopped his hand.  
"I fear there's a dreadful imbalance of clothing," she said, gazing up at her husbands from under her lashes, "for I am nearly nude while both of you are still fully dressed."

Oberyn looked over at Jaime with a smirk. "Just who is this practiced seductress in our bed?" he asked, glancing back at Sansa. "You will fit in well in Dorne." He stole another kiss from her before pulling back. "Would you like to watch as we," he said, gesturing to himself and Jaime, "take care of our garments, or would you like to assist us?" He quirked an eyebrow at her, his eyes aglow with desire.  
She blushed, noticing Jaime’s cheeks were flushed as well, his lips parted as he breathed heavily.  
"I'd… I'd like to help you," she said shyly, "though I know nothing about men's clothes."  
They grabbed her hands and helped her up. She bit her lip as she reached out for the lacings on Jaime’s finely embossed jerkin, her fingers trembling as she touched the thin leather cord.

Oberyn pressed himself against her, his chest flush against her back. One arm snaked around her waist, while his other rested on her hand. "Now, my darling Sansa," he whispered as he gently nipped the lobe of her ear, "the laces are much like those of your own dresses. Start pulling here, gently."  
Ever so slowly, she undid the laces. The red leather was soft under fingers and gave no resistance. Jaime’s muscles bunched and shifted under her hands as he shrugged out of his jerkin. She glanced at his face; her breath stuttered in her chest at the sight of his eyes, his pupils blown so wide there was only the thinnest ring of emerald green around them.

His thick doublet was next. This had elegant buckles and golden laces to compliment the pure white velvet. She loosened the tight sleeves, then undid the beautifully worked buckles on his chest. Oberyn helped her push the heavy garment off their soulmate. Jaime pulled his fine wool tunic over his head himself, leaving him in his linen shirt and black breeches. Sansa’s fingertips ghosted over his form, from his broad shoulders to the hidden —for now— muscles of his chest and abdomen. She felt a shiver run through him before he caught her hand and leaned down to place a gentle kiss on the inside of her wrist. He gazed at her, his heavy-lidded eyes sending a thrill through her. Knowing she was the cause of such a reaction was a heady feeling.

"Do not stop yet, my darlings. There's still more to take care of." Oberyn's voice was hoarse, like how Sansa’s did when she screamed into her pillows in anger or frustration. He sounded deliciously lustful, and Sansa felt another thrill. She reached down to the laces of Jaime's breeches. She could see a rough outline of something through the material— his cock, she thought. The word, that sounded so naughty when she'd overheard the various knights and stableboys say it, combined with the visual of it pressing against his breeches made her mouth go dry with anticipation. As she touched it, she heard Jaime's quick hiss of breath and saw the muscles of his abdomen shift and contract.  
"As delightful as he is to tease, I believe the three of us finally together is too overwhelming for him to endure much right now," Oberyn murmured, his hot breath hitting the shell of her ear and making her shiver. She quickly undid the laces of Jaime's breeches and he shoved them down, leaving himself in only his linen shirt and smallclothes, which did little to hide the size of him.

Jaime smirked at her . He grabbed her arms, pulling her away from Oberyn and whirling her around to face their Prince.  
"It's his turn now, isn't it?" Jaime asked innocently as he pressed himself against her, his hard length pressing against her buttocks. She could feel the heat of it through the layers of smallclothes, rubbing against it until Jaime gripped her hips tight and stilled her. She watched in fascination as Oberyn's throat and jaw worked, his normally brown eyes almost black with desire.

More confident now, she reached out to undo the long leather belt tied low around his hips. It fell to the floor, the large metal buckle loud as it hit. While Oberyn had agreed warmer fabrics were needed for his Northern attire, he'd refused to compromise on the Dornish shape of his clothes. Unlike Jaime, he wore no doublet or jerkin. Instead, his many thick velvet and wool tunics followed the Dornish way, cut and layered as to show off the handsome cloth beneath.

She unbuckled the first tunic, sleeveless and bright orange velvet embroidered with Martell suns. Jaime pushed it to the floor, his hands lingering on Oberyn’s shoulders, and Sansa worked on the next tunic. This one was Lannister crimson with dancing wolves and lions entwined with snakes all around the edges. A pure white velvet tunic, a long one that reached the middle of Oberyn’s calves, was next. The last tunics were white and grey, soft wool that Sansa knew from the feel came from the finest Northern weavers. Finally, she reached the laces of his dark brown breeches. She glanced up at him, biting her bottom lip. Ever so slowly, she teased the laces free. He groaned as she “accidentally” brushed his hardness.  
“It serves you right, all the teasing you and Jaime have put me through up until now,” Sansa told him pertly.  
He grimaced, looking over her shoulder to Jaime. “I fear we underestimated our Northern wolf,” he said, groaning again as she brushed against his cock once more. Jaime let out a chuckle, but it turned into a gasp as she ground against his own length.

Finally, she took pity on Oberyn and pulled the last lace free. Quickly he shoved his breeches down and whipped off his shirt. Before she could get a proper look, his hands snapped out to grab her own. He fell backwards onto the bed, pulling her on top of him. She let out a surprised squeal, feeling the bed dip as Jaime took his place next to them.

“How do you wish this night to go?” Oberyn asked her, brushing a lock of hair away from her face before kissing her cheek.  
“What do you mean?” she asked, distracted by the feeling of so much warm skin against her.  
“Would you like both of us tonight, or just one? Would you like me to hold you and kiss you as Jaime takes pleasure in you, or would you like the opposite?”  
“I…” For all Oberyn had told her the truth about laying with someone —how it wasn’t supposed to be like her mother and Septa Mordane had taught her— and for all the pictures in the Lyseni books he’d loaned her, she wasn’t sure how she wanted tonight to proceed. “I don’t know,” she admitted softly. She squeezed her eyes shut, fearing she’d disappointed her husbands. Gentle fingers at her chin made her look up. Oberyn smiled softly at her.  
“I understand. You are not of Dorne and therefore have not experimented as Dornish women do, so how are you to know what you do and do not like? My apologies, dearest Sansa.” He glanced over at Jaime, then back to her. “If you agree to trust us, we can make this night very pleasurable for you. But you must promise us that if we do anything you do not like, you will tell us immediately. Do you promise, sweet Sansa?”  
She nodded. “I promise,” she said, her voice breathy and soft.

Jaime leaned over to kiss her lips, while Oberyn’s hand drifted down to the ribbons on the front of her short silk chemise. Jaime leaned back, making her whine at the loss of his sweet kisses until he removed his shirt. Golden hair dusted his chest, tapering into a thick line that disappeared beneath his smallclothes. There were scars, reminders of accidents and battles he’d won; a reminder to her of how fierce her Lannister husband was. His muscles bunched and shifted under his skin, a very pleasant sight. Oberyn had told her that many men in Dorne trained and sparred without wearing tunics or shirts; she dearly hoped both he and Jaime would follow that tradition. Jaime noticed her appreciative gaze and grinned at her, his bright and easy grin she’d come to adore.

The ties of her silken chemise loosened, Oberyn smoothly moved out from underneath her and drew the chemise off her. Jaime leaned forward, giving her kisses that matched the hunger in his gaze. Oberyn kissed his way down her neck to her right breast, making her gasp.  
“Oh, what a delightful sound that is,” Jaime murmured against her lips. His hand trailed down her side, ghosting across her skin and leaving goosepimples in his wake. He reached the pretty ribbons of her silk smallclothes and looked at her. "May I?" he asked, toying at them without pulling. She nodded, and he gently, slowly loosened the ribbons. It seemed to take forever as he pulled her drawers off. But finally she was bare to their hungry gazes. She flushed, not from fear but from excitement. She knew they wouldn't hurt her.

Sansa looked down when she felt Oberyn nuzzle his nose against her nipple. His facial hair tickled and scratched her skin pleasantly. He placed a kiss on it before he took it into his mouth. He sucked and ever so gently scraped his teeth against it, laving it with his tongue. Jaime continued to kiss her and swallowed each moan and gasp that escaped her throat. She arched her back, pressing her breast into Oberyn’s mouth. It was like a channel ran directly from her nipple to her core, and Oberyn’s attentions made pure pleasure pulse down it.

Jaime gave her another kiss, then started placing hot, open-mouthed kisses down her body. When he started kissing her free breast, she expected him to lave that nipple too. For too short a time he did, but then he continued placing kisses down her stomach, her abdomen, even the thatch of curly red hair at the juncture of her thighs— her cunt, she thought, the word sounding delightfully naughty in her mind. He nuzzled into it, making her gasp as his nose hit something. She didn’t know what it was, but it made lighting bolts of pleasure shoot through her entire body and her legs jerk as she squealed.  
“Sounds like I found it,” he murmured, looking like a cat who'd found the cream. He placed his hands on her thighs, holding her wide open as he gazed at her most intimate parts. She blushed under his intense scrutiny. What had he found?  
“Jaime—”

She broke off with a loud yelp as he licked a stripe up her core. Her thighs trembled against his hands, unable to commit their instinctual response to close.  
“She’s so responsive,” he said as he looked up to Oberyn. “I fear we’ll become spoiled by her.”  
“If anyone becomes spoiled, I think it will be me,” Sansa said weakly.

Oberyn let her nipple go with a soft pop as he chuckled. “Oh, sweet Sansa, there is still so much more to come,” he told her with a delightfully lascivious grin. His hand tweaked the nipple he’d been suckling, sending another bolt of pleasure to her core. Her rather wet core, she realized. Thanks to Oberyn, she knew it was a good sign, and would ensure as little pain as possible when one of them entered her. But she hadn’t realized how easy it would be for her soulmates to make her so wet. Oberyn slid down beside Jaime, tasting her the same way. He groaned. “Oh, sweet Sansa indeed,” he told her, his voice reverent.

One of Jaime’s hands on her thighs was replaced by Oberyn’s hand. Sansa’s breath came in short gasps as she wondered what they would do next. She didn’t have to wait long, for Jaime licked her again. And after him, Oberyn did the same. They kept alternating, licking her slit and a little nub that made her yelp with pleasure. She could feel the difference between Jaime's smooth lips and Oberyn's facial hair, and it only added to her pleasure. Her legs twitched and trembled as they held her open for their attentions.  
“Oberyn, Jaime, Oberyn, Jaime,” she chanted, their names becoming a prayer, a plea to never stop. Something coiled deep in her belly, growing tighter and tighter as they continued. Her hands fisted in the sheets, her hair, their hair, anywhere she could grasp. She couldn’t keep still; she felt that she’d burst into flames if she did.

She felt a calloused hand, whose she didn’t know, press against that little bundle of pleasure at the top of her slit. A mewl pushed itself from her throat as that coil in her belly grew tighter. How it could she didn’t know, but she did know she was hurtling towards something. Her hips canted towards their mouths, a silent plea for more. Her husbands chuckled, at what she didn’t care. She didn’t care if she was being wanton and unseemly. The things they were doing to her felt so good, so right.

She felt Jaime place his lips around the nub, enveloping it in the wet heat of his mouth. He laved his tongue over it, the warm and flexible muscle feeling so good. When he sucked, it made that coil in her belly snap. Lightning coursed through her veins. Her hips jolted up from the bed as she screamed. Her legs twitched and trembled, and would have slammed shut if not for the strong hands holding her open.

When the little aftershocks of pleasure receded, Jaime moved up to gently kiss her. He tasted a little tangy, but she found herself growing warm and flushed at the realization that it was herself she tasted on him.  
“Are you all right?” he asked, laying on his side as he pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes.  
Her brow furrowed in confusion. How could he ask her that? Didn’t he know she felt wonderful? She’d never felt anything like this before. It was like she was sated and hungry at the same time. “It was perfect,” she murmured, kissing him on his lips, his nose, his cheek, anywhere she could reach. “You were perfect, both of you.” She reached her hand down to grasp Oberyn’s, twining her fingers with his.

“And there is still more to come,” Oberyn said lightly. The tip of one of his fingers slowly pressed into her slick channel. “Though we would have you properly prepared first, so you do not hurt." He pushed his finger in slowly, pressing in and pulling out. Obscene noises, wet noises, filled the room as he used his finger in a mimicry of his cock. Jaime played with her nipples, pulling and tweaking them. Jolts of pleasure shot down to her core. Sansa melted under the attention as Oberyn added another finger inside her. She whimpered at the slight sting as he stretched her in ways she'd never been before, her muscles unused to such an intrusion. Oberyn placed gentle kisses on her thighs, his beard tickling her delicate skin.

Once she became accustomed to his fingers, Oberyn added a third one. She grew used to it much more quickly, likely helped by how drenched she was. He placed his thumb on her nub, pressing down and making her jolt and twitch. She felt his warm breath ghost over her cunt as he released the pressure of his thumb. He kissed and licked at the little nub while he pumped his fingers faster as she moaned. Jaime continued to lavish attention on her breasts, playing with her nipples and kissing her every so often. Her husbands seemed determined to ravish her, and she loved it. She could feel the coil in her belly winding up again, and quicker than before it snapped. Pleasure surged through her, making her whimper and cry. She looked down at Oberyn to see a rush of wetness soak his beard and moustache. He grinned at her, pride filling his eyes.

"It seems our lovely wife enjoys having us sup on her cunt," he said. "And luckily for her, so do we."  
Jaime pressed a kiss to her temple. "Would you like to take one of us now?" he asked her.  
Sansa nodded. Her core ached and felt empty, too empty. The idea of being filled with something warm and firm made her breath come faster, her skin flush even more, and her muscles in her core flutter.

"I'll let our Prince take the lead. He likely has more experience with maidens than I," Jaime said. "And what a man to have for your first." He laid on his side, his hand reaching down to lazily pump his cock.

Sansa laid back on the bed. Her hair fanned out around her. She felt like some Northern spirit or fey; one of the Children of the Forest, perhaps, or a weirwood tree come to life as a human woman. She blushed when she saw Jaime working his cock, his hand slowly traveling up and down the thick length. When a drop of liquid pearled on the tip she wondered what it would taste like, and promptly blushed even more.

Oberyn tsked at Jaime. "You are embarrassing our wolf, my dear Ser," he said, no real heat to his words.  
Sansa shook her head. "No, I… I only wondered how he might taste," she said shyly, surprising herself at her wanton words.  
Jaime's cock jerked in his hands. Before he could say anything, Oberyn winked at her. "He tastes quite delicious, and I should know." He leaned down, licking up the bead of liquid. "Still delicious," he said with a grin.  
Jaime's cock jerked again and he threw his head back with a groan, covering his eyes with his arm. "You two will be the death of me," he moaned.

The knowledge that Jaime and Oberyn enjoyed each other as much as she enjoyed them made her heart race with joy. She wondered what they had done on the journey to Winterfell, and if they would demonstrate for her on their way to Dorne.

But that would be a question for another night. Tonight, Sansa wanted to be their wife in truth. She ached with emptiness, an ache she knew her husbands would drive away. She crawled towards Jaime, leaning her back across his chest. If she wanted to, she could reach out and touch his cock. Right now she wasn't that brave, so she settled for placing her hand over his own. He grinned at her, then twisted his hand so his was on top of hers and hers was touching him there. The skin was soft and smooth, and he was warm to the touch. She moved her hand up and down, enjoying the sounds he made and the way the muscles in his abdomen contracted. His huffs of breath and deep moans made her even wetter. She glanced at him through her lashes, then smiled sweetly. Leaning over, she placed a kiss on the tip of his cock, causing a loud moan to erupt from his throat. She licked up another bead of liquid that escaped from the small slit in the tip. It tasted a little salty, different than tasting herself upon his lips, but she didn't mind.

He pushed at her shoulders, pushing her away from his length. Shakily he grinned at her. "You're quite good at that, dear, and I'd love you to do that some other time. But tonight is your night."

Oberyn moved forward, helping Jaime lean her back. "You took three fingers easily, darling Sansa, and my cock is only slightly bigger than that."  
"You certainly don't feel that way once you're inside," Jaime retorted.  
Sansa blushed at the pictures her mind supplied, of Jaime and Oberyn— a whine worked its way up from her throat and she pressed her thighs together, needing something down there.  
Oberyn tsked. "How remiss I have been, distracted by having such lovely people in bed. Forgive me, darling." He kissed her hungrily, devouring her mouth like he devoured her cunt. He reached down, teasing her nub. She whimpered in protest, wanting —no, needing more.

Oberyn seemed to take pity on her and lifted her legs up, placing her ankles on his shoulders. He smeared the tip of his cock in her wetness. She gasped as it ran over her nub, sending a jolt of pleasure throbbing through her cunt. He chuckled as she shivered, pressing the tip into her.  
He ran his fingers down her cheek. "Remember to breathe,” he told her. “Relax." Slowly, inch by inch, he pushed inside her. She focused on relaxing her muscles, an endeavor helped by Jaime's hands once again massaging her breasts.

Finally he was fully inside her. His hips were flush against her buttocks, his pelvis pressing against that nub of pleasure in a delightfully shivery way. He stayed that way, letting her get accustomed to the intrusion. Slowly, almost too slowly, he dragged himself out of her hot, wet channel until just the very tip of his cock was still inside her. Ever so carefully, he pushed his way back in until he was fully inside her again, the head of his length teasing against the entrance of her womb. He kept a slow pace, too slow and tortuous for her to be satisfied with it for long.  
"Please, more," she begged. More what she didn't know, just more.  
"As my wife commands." He held on to her legs, increasing his speed. His hips surged back and forth, the veins of his cock rubbing and dragging against her inner walls perfectly. She mewled and moaned at the sensations; the lewd, wet sounds, the feel of the hair on his chest against her legs, the smack of his skin against her own, the look of his face contorted in pleasure, the sparks that flew from her nub. A feeling, similar to the coil of pleasure but different at the same time, grew in her. It felt like a fire slowly growing in her belly, getting warmer the higher the flames got.

Oberyn’s hips stuttered. With a drawn out groan, he slammed into her as deep as he could. She felt his cock twitch and something warm pour inside her. He fell to the side, his softening cock slipping out of her. “I pride myself on making my partners peak before myself,” he panted, “but I wanted to leave our Jaime with something to do.”  
“How generous,” Jaime drawled.

Within moments, Jaime had slid out from underneath her and notched himself at her entrance. “My turn,” he said with a grin. He slid inside her easily with a loud groan; Sansa was grateful he was no larger than Oberyn. Unlike Oberyn, Jaime was faster from the start. She moaned at the drag and slam of his cock. It nudged a spot inside her and she arched her back, screaming in pleasure.  
“Someone enjoyed that,” he huffed. He seemed determined to find that spot again, and he did. She chanted his name over and over like a prayer, a supplication to keep doing the same thing. Oberyn held her hands, keeping her in place so she didn’t slide across the bed.

Jaime lasted longer than Oberyn had, long enough for the fire in her belly to explode into a crackling inferno. She swore she saw stars as white hot pleasure surged through her body. She howled, uncaring if anyone heard her. As her inner muscles contracted and fluttered around him, Jaime’s thrusts grew more erratic. Once more she felt the tell-tale twitching until something warm and liquid spurted into her. Jaime roared his release, slumping over her. His breath was as ragged as hers was.

Oberyn untangled his fingers and walked over to the wash basin. He dipped two cloths in the water. One he handed to Jaime, who used it to clean himself. The other Oberyn used to gently clean their combined seed from her core. Pulling one of the sheets from the bed, he worked it into the fabric. Sansa gasped as Oberyn cut a small slice in his hip. The blood dripped onto the soiled sheets, mixing with the seed. “Why…?” she asked him, confused.  
He kissed her forehead. “Because too many outside of Dorne need blood as proof, sweet one. Neither of us would let you bleed, but neither will we risk someone challenging our marriage.”

She tried to swallow past the lump in her throat. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. They cared so much for her, and she for them, that it was almost overwhelming. She reached out for him, drawing him into her arms. “Thank you,” she whispered, kissing all over his face. Jaime’s strong arms wrapped around her waist, holding himself against her back. Oberyn pressed himself against her front, one arm draped over her while the other stretched above her head to entwine his fingers with Jaime’s. With her face so close to Oberyn's bare chest, she could hear the soothing beat of his heart. Between that and Jaime's warmth at her back, she felt safer than she had in a long time.

* * *

Sansa and Ellaria watched as their lovers sparred against each other. Jaime indeed followed the Dornish way of not wearing shirts, and it was a delight to watch his and Oberyn's muscles shift and move. Sweat glistened on their forms, for Dorne was hot even in the grip of Autumn. She yawned slightly as she leaned her head on Ellaria's shoulder.  
"Did you not sleep well last night?" Ellaria asked with a gleam in her eyes.  
Sansa glared at her, though it had no real heat. "I slept quite well. Unfortunately, I was woken up very early this morning and thoroughly tired out, as you well know." Sansa replied pertly. She enjoyed the bedsports with her husbands and paramour.  
Ellaria simply smiled and ran her fingers through Sansa’s hair, her fingertips gently raking her scalp in such a pleasant way.

Sansa sighed with contentment, almost missing Oberyn disarming Jaime. Her knightly husband insisted on learning the Dornish spear that Oberyn used, but he was still a novice compared to their fierce viper. Still, they were both good sports and clapped each other on the back. They flopped down next to the women, pouring ladles of water over their heads to cool off. Servants appeared, bringing not only food and drink for them but also the babes. Little Lewyn, named for Oberyn's favorite uncle, and darling Joanna, a Lannister name for a Martell daughter. Both had their father's dark eyes, but unlike his sister's inky Martell locks, Lewyn's hair was only a few shades darker than Sansa’s own.

Jaime held Lewyn, gazing at him with unconcealed adoration, as Joanna rooted at Sansa’s breasts. She hadn't completely weaned them yet, though she would have to soon. The small swelling of her belly was proof of that. She hoped it was Jaime's this time; while he adored all their children equally, reveling in his role of loving father, she would love to give him a child with his hair and her eyes, or perhaps her hair and his eyes. She hoped to give her husbands many children. Brave and courteous sons along with beautiful and intelligent daughters. Children with hair of Lannister gold, Martell black, and her own auburn. And when their children turned six and ten and received a soulmate mark, no matter how unexpected the name —or names— was, they would be able to follow them, as Sansa had fought so hard to follow her own soulmates.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone!
> 
> This was the Pack Prompt for February, which was "unexpected". And HOO BOY did it live up to that! I started this intending a short piece, about 3k words of happy little fluff. And it turned into this. Which I love, but was wholly unexpected. I even wrote smut! And if any of you have also read my first attempt at it in "Charm of the Past", I think we can all agree that this time it's better. 😅
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! 💖


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